A Special Breed of Stupid
by inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Tony sometimes wondered if there was a limit to Steve's recklessly heroic antics. More than that, he wondered if there was a limit to his own recklessly self-destructive antics. But what could he say? No one did reckless better than Tony Stark and Steven Rogers, and when they got together, nothing could stop the sheer stupidity from taking over. Post Civil War, Villain!Tony


Reading Never Bite the Hand that Feeds You before reading A Special Breed of Stupid is required. Reading What Happened to the Others? before reading A Special Breed of Stupid is strongly recommended but not required.

* * *

Tony took another sip of his drink and watched the soldier's chest rise and fall in gentle cadence. A chill ran down his spine, followed by the soft click of the central air shutting off. Then it was quiet, eerily so, the beeping machines seeming to echo in the otherwise silent room. Every now and then the ice in his glass would crack and shift. Lights blinked in the stillness, the darkened room accenting the ebb and flow of their existence.

 _Boy, you gotta be a special breed of stupid to wind up like this._ Shrugging on a jacket, he decided his next drink would be a hot one and continued to stare. _Idiot._

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Tony realized he had been there for three solid hours, and he silently cursed his single-minded nature. There were a million things he could have been doing. There were a million things he _should_ have been doing, yet there he was, sitting on a bedside chair with a book in his lap and sipping some iced tea.

Steve inhaled deeply, and Tony went completely still, waiting in silence as the bedridden man slowly opened his eyes. For a moment, Steve just looked at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and tinged with confusion.

 _I really need to invent a mind reading machine. It would make it a lot easier to figure out what goes on up there._

Steve inhaled again, turning his head with no small amount of effort and seeking Tony's eyes. He found them, and the inventor allowed him a few more seconds of peaceful rest before the questions started.

"I have to know. How stupid are you? Because, I mean, you've pulled a lot of dumb stunts in your life, but this one really takes the cake." Tony paused, waiting for a response and pressing when he didn't get one. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Steve blinked sluggishly, lips slowly parting as a rasp came up his throat to answer. "Did he make it?"

"Uh, no. Not even a little bit. We can't even pretend we cremated him." Tony laughed sharply, getting to his feet and beginning to pace at the foot of the bed. "Which you should have known. Because you can't fall into an arc reactor without being, you know, _disintegrated._ The only reason you're alive is because the weapon the reactor was powering hit you when you fell in after him."

Steve turned his gaze back to the ceiling, a hollow pain filling his eyes. Tony took a drink and almost sat down before the urge to move hit him again.

"You know, what I don't get is why you even tried, and I'm not talking about the impossibility of it." Tony paced as he spoke, casting occasional glances at the bed. "It was one of my boys that fell in. No one who works for me has a very upright character, so what exactly inspired you to try and save him?"

Steve kept looking straight up, a mixture of emotions shifting across his features, and a quiet mumble was heard a moment later.

"I just wanted to save somebody."

Tony couldn't say he was surprised by the answer—he had guessed as much himself—but it gave him a good opening to poke around in the prisoner's mind.

"You wanted to save somebody." Tony pursed his lips and nodded, almost as if considering the truth of the statement. "Yeah. Okay. Well, I'm going to brush over the lecture about how full of yourself that makes you sound and skip right to the part where I ask you if you're feeling useless."

Steve said nothing, his vitals unchanged, his face expressionless.

"That's okay, I'll answer for you. You are. Because I know you didn't care about that man. I know you wanted to, but I have been sucking the life out of you for about a year now, and it is getting really hard to care about anything at all."

Swallowing, the soldier shut his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out, opening them, his heart rate just a beat or two faster. A slight tremor ran through the soldier's body.

"You're tired of this, too. How I make everything into a verbal beat down. How you can't say anything without me picking it apart and using it against you. Everything is a battle, and not the kind you can win with muscles." Tony gestured to the man in bed. "You're used to this by now; you've submitted to it. You've always been a rebel, fighting for freedom and justice and whatnot, but your heart isn't in it anymore. Not really. You're just going through the motions because you know you shouldn't be this pitiful. You know you should keep fighting, you know you should save anyone and everyone you can, and you know you should be working on a plan of escape."

Defeat was the word that came to mind when he looked at Steve's face, as if the will to win had drained out of him entirely. Blue eyes were tired and hazy, barely able to stay open due to fatigue of the non-physical variety.

Defeated. Weary. Lifeless.

"You are still trying to cling to who you were when I dragged you in here, and you're going to kill yourself if you keep it up." Tony downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the arm of the equally empty chair. "Steve, you gotta let go."

Steve blinked but was otherwise still.

"Look," Tony sat down on the edge of the bed and turned himself so he was facing his prisoner, "You have to face the facts. You lost, Steve, and there is no way to come back from this. There is no way to bring the world back from this. It has to find its way back on its own, and one man can't do that. Not even me, and I'm the one who made this mess." He put a hand on Steve's leg and gave it a squeeze. "It's not your responsibility anymore, Steve. I know you want it to be, and I know you've been clinging to that purpose to give yourself something to strive for, but it's over. It's over, Steve. It's too broken to fix."

Steve finally tore his gaze away from the white panels and met Tony's eyes, his own cerulean hues glassy with unshed tears.

"It's over," the multibillionaire repeated.

"I know," the super soldier whispered.

Reaching out, Tony took Steve's hand in his and allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. Steve only looked at him, so small and lost and hurt, and then his chest began to jump.

"That's it. Let it out." Tony thumbed the back of the tubed and wired hand.

Steve choked out a sob, swallowing three more and clenching his jaw, fighting to keep himself under control. His body was rigid, tears streaking over his temples and into his hairline.

"Don't fight it, Steve. It's not healthy." Tony squeezed the hand he was still holding. "Come on, I won't hurt you. Take a deep breath and see what you can get out."

Steve did as he was told, torso quaking as a number of cries racked his body, lungs sucking air down between clenched teeth.

"You said it yourself, Steve, it's over. It's over, and that really doesn't have to be a bad thing. Just let that weight off your chest."

The cries came harder, faster, slowly becoming audible and intermingled with grunts of pain. Tony grabbed a pillow and pressed it to the man's chest, helping him to wrap his free arm around it.

"Everything has an end, Steve. And for you, this is it. You might even say this is..." he paused just long enough to secure the weeping man's attention, "…the end of the line."

Steve looked like he had been stabbed in the gut. Tony looked like he had won the lottery.

"Ha! Oh, come on. You had to know that was coming. I mean, the build up and everything?" Tony sniggered to himself. "You are literally so easy."

Steve stared at him, eyes wounded but not angry. In fact, there wasn't a single trace of animosity anywhere on his face. He just looked hurt. Eyes glassy, lips slightly pursed, chin quivering, brow creased, he stared, just looking so incredibly hurt. Then he began to crumble, starting with his eyes shutting and sending a new set of tears in a race for his hairline. He sniffed and exhaled slowly through his mouth, fists curling through the bedsheets. He shuddered, his face tight with effort focused on keeping himself calm.

It didn't work.

Steve lost the fight to keep his cries silent, shoulders jerking as tears began to pour down his cheeks. He couldn't move from his spot on the bed, but his back kept arching, as if he wanted to curl up or turn on his side but couldn't.

Tony watched in a stupefied silence for a little while, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling a heavy weight settle in his gut. Feeling sick, he reached out and took Steve's hand in his, murmuring softly.

"That was low. That was… really low. I'm … I'm sorry. You didn't do anything to deserve that… you haven't broken any rules. I'm sorry, Steve."

Steve didn't respond to the apology with words, but he gripped the man's hand tighter and let another anguished cry rip through him.

"It's alright, Stevie Boy. Everything's gonna be alright." Tony winced slightly at the tightening hold on his hand but felt he had no right to complain. "It's gonna be okay. Promise."

Steve shook his head violently, still struggling to sit or roll or do _something_ that would get him out of the vulnerable, flat-on-his-back position he was in. "No, no, no, it's not gonna be okay."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't, you killed him, you killed him, he's never coming back."

Tony nodded slowly, unable to deny the factuality of that statement. "You're right. We're never going to see any of them ever again." He swallowed thickly. "But you know, there are worse things. Things could, uh, definitely be a lot worse."

Steve looked a him incredulously, trying to figure out whether or not the engineer was playing another cruel joke. _"How?"_

"Well, we've got each other, for starters. Imagine if we were total strangers. I could totally be videotaping this to re-watch later like some sadistic psychopath, and you could be suicidal or kept in a teeny, tiny solitary confinement cell. I could be doing science experiments on you, or I could have turned you into some weird, kinky sex slave. It could suck for both of us. Imagine if I wasn't in control of the whole world. Imagine me dragging you here and there and everywhere. Imagine still having hope and watching it die over and over and over again." Tony shrugged. "Things can always be worse."

Steve stared at him for a moment or two, blinking hard and trying to speak through the quiver in his voice. "I just want to go back to being a skinny nobody in 1940s Brooklyn."

"Yeah, and I wanna go back to—"

Tony stopped.

When _did_ he want to go back to? His childhood was bland and colorless, full of insecurities and revolving around a father who didn't care to acknowledge his existence. His adolescent years, filled with the horrendous combination of hormones and his drinking habits, was a time period he hoped to never see again. Young adulthood was fairly nice, before he found out his mentor wanted him dead and his entire career was a waste of time and money and _lives._ But did he really want to go back there? That false narrative of people caring and him whole and healthy and mentally sound? After that? The false narrative of the Avengers actually caring about him? The calm before the storm of betrayal?

"…well, we all want to go back to a better time. But we can't, so we take what we're given and make the best of it." Tony squeezed the soldier's hand. "You'll see. Things might not be great, but they're survivable."

"I don't want that, Tony…" Steve hiccupped, and the spasms triggered a coughing fit that lasted for a minute and a half and left a fresh layer of salt on his cheeks. "I don't w-want… I don't want to survive, I want…"

Tony watched and waited in silence, and He sat and stared, waiting to see what would happen next.

"I want to… _fix_ it. I want… things to be better… not broken, not… not like this."

Tony pursed his lips and patted the back of Steve's hand. "Well, neither of those are gonna happen, so…"

"I know!" Steve jerked his hand, lifting it to his face and pressing his knuckles against his forehead. "I know, I know, I know. I know, but I hate it. I _hate_ it." He shook his head, swallowing thickly as his eyes welled up again. "I don't _want_ this, I don't _want_ it, Tony. I can't do this, I can't—I don't—I…"

Tony slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, unsympathetic eyes wandering around the room. "Well, you kinda have to do it. You don't have a choice. And isn't giving up, like, sacrilege to you?"

Steve laughed—long and loud and bitter, hatred skirting through the lilts and dives—and by the time his voice actually came out, he had gotten himself to the point of screaming. "What do you call _this,_ Tony? What do you call it? I can't _give_ anymore, and even if I could, it wouldn't make a _difference_ , because there is _nothing_ left. Nothing! I can't give up because there's nothing _to_ give up. Not anymore." Steve's chest was heaving, a thin sheen of sweat revealing how poorly his body was handling the exertion. "You _did_ it, Tony. You did it, you destroyed everything, you destroyed _me._ Are you happy now? Do you have what you wanted? Do you?"

"You're wrong."

Steve laughed again, more demented than before, and went slack on the bed. "Of course I am. Of course."

"You are," the inventor insisted. "You have always given more than one hundred percent of yourself—"

"Shut up, Tony, just shut up." Steve gripped his own hair and screwed his eyes shut. "Stop with your—your _speeches._ I don't care."

"You—"

"I don't _care_."

There was a moment of silence, the global dictator feeling a surge of anger in his veins, and then Tony offered a simple nod. He brought Steve's rage on himself, and he accepted that. He overstepped. He was cruel, and it was uncalled for.

So, without a single word, Tony got to his feet and started for the door, grabbing his glass and book on the way out.

"Don't leave."

Tony stopped and turned around, confusion creasing his brow.

"Please." Steve spoke through clenched teeth, his voice sharp with anger but dulled by desperation. "I don't want to be alone."

Tony held up his hands in a display of frustration and disbelief. "You literally just said—"

"I don't want you to talk, but I don't want you to leave." Steve swallowed and stared up at the ceiling, exhaling loudly and seeming to release some of the hatred with his carbon dioxide. "I know… I know I hurt you when you needed me, and if you want to leave… I can't stop you… I just…" He gripped the bedsheets, struggling with himself and the conflict in his own interests. "You said it could be worse, but because we have each other, it's not. I need… I _need_ a teammate right now, and you killed—killed them all, and I… if I have to survive in this… this nightmare you made… you have to give me something, or… or…."

The soldier wavered, but Tony knew what he was going to say, so verbalization wasn't necessary.

"Alright."

Steve didn't move, holding his breath like he was waiting for another underhanded blow.

But there was none.

Tony grabbed the chair he had watched the soldier for hours from and situated it near the head of the bed. He picked up his book and sat down, careful not to knock over his empty glass, crossing one leg over the other and pretending to read.

 _Well, here I am. You got what you wanted, Stevo._

He stopped his thoughts there, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was getting what he wanted, too. After all, wasn't it betrayal that triggered his descent into deplorability? Wasn't it that soul-crushing loneliness? Wasn't it the sting of knowing he wasn't needed anymore? Or that he never had been?

Steve was getting what he wanted because Tony stayed with him. Tony got what he wanted because what Steve wanted—what Steve _needed_ —was him.

And it had been so long since anybody needed Tony Stark. It had been so, so long; long enough that he might have grabbed onto the soldier's hand just to see what would happen when he tried to remove it.

And it had been so long since Steven Rogers had anybody to rely on. It had been so, so long; long enough that he might have grasped Tony's retreating hand and held on for dear life just to make sure it was real.

And they sat there, the twisted villain and the broken hero, hand in hand, clinging to the memory of a friendship and the sense of safety it provided. They sat there, ignoring the lack of circulation in their hands, pretending the thermostat didn't need to be adjusted. Like two little boys making believe, their old teammates and loved ones became their imaginary friends, and they went back to a time that had never truly been.

Tony took a deep breath, and he felt Steve tense up, but he spoke anyways. He had a feeling Steve wouldn't mind the kind of talking he was about to do.

"Hey, Steve. How ya' been?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Steve replied, his own voice hoarse with the remnants of his earlier anger. "Well… not gonna lie, Tony, I've felt better."

Tony pushed out a quiet chuckle. "I can't imagine why."

Steve tried to laugh, too, but he couldn't manage much. "I, uh… I heard you and Pepper split up. Sorry to hear that."

Tony shrugged his shoulders. "Eh. It happens. It wasn't anybody's fault. We just needed a break, that's all."

Steve sighed and offered a weak nod. "I've been taking a break, too, but I've been at it for eighty years. You think I should get back in the game sometime soon?"

"The heart is a fragile thing, Steve. You might want to give it another decade or two." Tony forced another laugh and shook his head. "I'll hook you up with one of my scientists. There's a cute little blonde, works on the fourth floor, always in a good mood. I bet you'd like her."

"That would be nice, Tony. Thanks." Steve's lips twitched into a brief smile, and then he lapsed back into silence.

Tony let him, choosing not to speak anymore himself. He was afraid—and he imagined Steve was too—that talking too much would ruin the illusion. Talking too much would remind them that Pepper was MIA, Sharon had gone down with S.H.I.E.L.D., and the little blonde on the fourth floor who always wore the kindest smile was probably rotting away beneath a mountain of rubble somewhere beyond the confines of the Tower.

No, thinking about that was no good at all.

Because if it really was over, if the world really was broken beyond repair, if they really were so alone and so utterly defeated by their own minds that they couldn't take it one more day, then it wasn't the end of the line. Not for them. Not for the survivors, the fighters, the _adaptors_. Not for the ones who couldn't roll over and die no matter how much they wanted or needed to.

Quite the opposite, it would be the beginning, and Tony couldn't do that. He couldn't fight tooth and nail to get out of his head the way he got out of the cave in Afghanistan. He couldn't drop everything and turn his life around the way he had when he stopped manufacturing weapons. He couldn't put his heart and soul into protecting anything or anyone the way he had when he believed in the world, in his friends, in his _family._

He couldn't do that, not again, and he didn't think Steve could, either.

"It's the end of the line," Tony whispered, and he hoped the desperation in his voice would help Steve understand he wasn't being cruel on purpose. "It has to be. It _has_ to be."

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"I know, Tony."

Steve squeezed Tony's hand.

Tony squeezed back, pressing his forehead against the bedrail.

 _You have to be a special breed of stupid to wind up like this._

And Tony was. God help him, he really, truly was.


End file.
